teenager—riding around in a convertible, laughing and singing with abandon. I tell them about the car, the friends, and the feeling of freedom. The silly songs, the greasy diner food, the way we’d look for boys and pretend we weren’t—how the night was always full of possibilities just beyond our grasp.
My older son listens, half-interested, half-amused, and I can see him thinking about his future—about the car rides he’ll have, the nights that will feel endless, the soundtrack he’ll make for himself. I watch him as he’s growing up, gaining his independence, and I can’t help but feel a swell of excitement. He’s so close to that age now—on the brink of something bigger, ready to step into his adventures. I see it when he excels at school, when he’s out on the soccer field, pushing himself a little further each time, the way he’s starting to become someone entirely his own.
I can’t wait to see where he goes, what music he’ll choose, who he’ll become. And maybe, one day, he’ll drive his own kids around, playing whatever ridiculous songs made him feel free, glancing back with a grin. I hope his taste in music is better than mine, but even if it isn’t, I hope he sings at the top of his lungs. Because that’s what these moments are for—letting the music fill you up, making the world feel big and full of promise, and knowing you’re on the edge of something amazing.